


Bittersweet

by ryostrenchcoat



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Gen, M/M, gift fic for chrissy for her universe!, mtwbf-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryostrenchcoat/pseuds/ryostrenchcoat
Summary: punition (feminine noun): punishment, also a type of butter cookie traditionally baked for ChristmasA little one-shot for DoubleDebiru's MTWBF-verse as a (very late) Christmas present!
Relationships: Asuka Ryo | Satan/Fudo Akira
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoubleDebiru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleDebiru/gifts).
  * Inspired by [More Than We Bargained For](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662744) by [DoubleDebiru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleDebiru/pseuds/DoubleDebiru). 



Christmas wasn’t a big deal in the Fudo-Asuka household. When asked about religion, Akira identified as Buddhist and Ryo responded that “if there is a God, I want to punch them.” Either way, they had no particular reason to celebrate Christian holidays. 

The only reason December 25 stood out from any other winter day was written in loopy, quasi-cursive French on a notecard taped onto the inside of one of their kitchen cupboard doors. 

“Do you want to help me make the Christmas cookies?” Ryo asked, peering around the doorway into the living room where Kohei was sitting cross-legged on the floor watching TV. He instantly perked up and scrambled to his feet.

“I can help this year?” Kohei asked, beaming and hopeful. Ryo gave him a small smile and a nod, feeling guilty for a moment that he had never let him bake with him before. Usually he baked the cookies alone - it was one of the few things he ever cooked, and it was more of a ceremony than anything. His mother, originally from Quebec, had copied the recipe from a friend back in graduate school and made them every year when he was growing up. Every year until he was thirteen and she was too sick. 

By the next Christmas, she was gone, and he was living in Mexico with his father. They brought her recipe with them, that notecard from her stationery set that had lilies in the top right corner. Ryo dutifully taped it to a cupboard door just like she had, but he and his father only tried baking them once. The recipe was simple, but feeling the emotions associated with it proved too hard. A couple years later, Ryo’s father was gone too, and the notecard was tucked into Ryo’s luggage and taken back to Japan, taped to a cupboard door in his apartment and later in his house, and baked five times. Soon to be six. 

“I think you’re old enough now. Miki told me what a great job you did making cookies with her, and who am I to deny the help of a world-famous baker?”

“I’m not famous,” Kohei replied, but his grin belied his modesty. He sat at the table, pulling his feet up onto his chair to sit on them like Akira did when he was little. 

“Your feet will go asleep like that,” Ryo warned, but Kohei was too absorbed in the ingredients laid out to mind his teasing. Butter, flour, sugar, and an egg. 

“Is that all that goes in them?”

“Yep. They need a lot of prep to make them right, though. Do you want to pick out some cookie-cutters?”

\---

_It was much warmer in Mexico City in December than Tokyo. The weather didn’t even call for a jacket, but Ryo slipped one on anyway, feeling more comfortable wearing more layers. He put his wallet in the left pocket and locked the door behind him, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and heading to the market. Christmas was two days away and he wasn’t sure if anything would be open on the 24th or 25th, and their pantry was almost empty. As per usual._

_Ryo didn’t know how to cook much, but his father wouldn’t cook at all. It was a strange shift in Isamu’s behavior - the man had always loved food, and found ways to make even sad field camp staples appetizing. When Ryo was little, he would sit at the kitchen table to work on his homework while his parents made dinner, joking and smiling and pausing to help him if he was stuck on a question. Apparently Isamu wasn’t interested in cooking if Esther wasn’t there to help him anymore, even if he still had a son to feed. So Ryo stepped up to make sure they didn’t starve, armed only with his rudimentary cooking knowledge and easy recipes that he looked up sometimes. For the most part, they lived off of rice and beans, eggs, and quesadillas._

_Consequently, Ryo’s basket contained their few essentials, minus butter and cheese, which he was still looking for. Grocery shopping always made him anxious with all the crowded aisles and mandatory interactions with cashiers. He had already made two laps of the store waiting for the dairy aisle to clear a little bit, not feeling like asking an old lady to move to he could reach the butter. Thankfully, there were only two people in the aisle on his third way around, and he could finally get his damn dairy products and leave._

_He put a pack of butter in his basket and started to turn around but hesitated. It was December 23rd. Heart in his throat, he grabbed another pack before heading to the baking aisle, tossing in a bag of flour and sugar. He didn’t know if they had all the supplies to bake anything, but his heart had made a decision and his brain refused to think about it further._

\---

“When I turn this on, it’s going to spin really fast, so be ready.”

“I know; I’ve seen Daddy use it before,” Kohei said, perched at the table, armed with a hand-mixer hovering over a bowl of softened butter and sugar. 

“We’re gonna mix it for about two minutes and then stop, okay?” Ryo stood over him and waited for him to nod before pressing the power button. A bit of sugar sprayed out of the bowl before he could adjust the speed, but that was the only mess so far, and Kohei looked beyond pleased with himself.

Ryo turned the mixer off and glanced at the recipe. “We’re adding the egg now.”

Kohei peered at the card, just now noticing that it wasn’t in Japanese. “What language is that?”

“It’s French, baby. This is my mom’s, your grandma’s recipe, and she was French-Canadian, remember? I’ve told you that.” Kohei blinked owlishly and replied with a small “oh” before moving back on to the cookies. Kohei knew that Ryo was multilingual and that his grandmother on Ryo’s side was Canadian, but had never met her and rarely saw Ryo use other languages. Once again, Ryo felt a pang of guilt, knowing that his mother, a linguist, would be disappointed to know that he hadn’t been raising his kids to be multilingual. Maybe that was something he needed to start with Kohei and keep in mind for the new baby, sleeping down the hall with Akira. 

Right now, however, the matter at hand was beating an egg into the batter, not fretting over parenting decisions. There would always be time for fretting over parenting decisions later. 

\--- 

_The oven was preheating, and his dad was in his office, as per usual. Ryo hesitated at the office door, watching the shadows move in the crack at the bottom as Isamu paced and chain-smoked. After several moments with his heart in his throat, he found the nerve to knock._

_A pause within. “Yes?”_

_“I’m making Maman’s cookies for Christmas. Do you want to help?” Ryo responded, still looking at the closed door._

_A painful silence, then the shuffling of feet and papers. “I’m too busy right now, but thank you.”_

_He swallowed, not sure why he had a knot in his throat when he got the answer he expected. “Okay. I’ll call you when they’re done.”_

\---

The sweet smell of butter cookies filled the air as little stars rose in the oven. Kohei wanted to pull them out, but Ryo didn’t quite trust a six year-old (nearly seven, as he was often reminded) to handle a hot oven door and pan. Only momentarily disappointed, he bounced with excitement by the counter as Ryo pulled them out and set them on the stove to cool. 

“Can I have one?”

“Not yet,” he reminded him, taking off his oven mitt to stroke Kohei’s hair. “They need to cool off for a little bit first.” 

“Do I smell cooking? By my husband?” Ryo turned to see Akira coming into the kitchen, a sleepy Hoshiko in his arms. 

“It was mainly Kohei, in fairness. He’s the real talent around here.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Akira smiled back at his son, beaming from the praise. Walking over to the stove to admire their work, his face lit up in recognition. “I completely forgot about these this year! Is it Christmas already? Keeping track of time without a work schedule is impossible.” 

“Yeah, it’s the 25th. I almost didn’t make them, but. I dunno. I wanted Kohei to get to help now, I guess.” 

Akira settled down at the table, nuzzling Hoshiko with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I remember your mom bringing those to school and hiding extras for us to eat after class. She was awesome.” 

It was at that point that the tears, so close to the surface all day, finally came for Ryo. 

\--- 

_A few minutes later, Ryo was about to put the butter in the mixer when his dad came in._

_“Have you let the butter soften?” he asked, voice firm but eyes red._

_“It’s been out on the counter since I got home,” he responded, surprised and a bit guarded. Isamu came over and gently felt the butter, taking it from his son’s hands and putting it back down on the counter._

_“It’s still a little firm. It’ll mix better if we let it soften for a while longer. Let’s make dinner first and then do the cookies.”_

_Numbly, Ryo nodded. This was unlike his dad, and he wasn’t sure how to act. They didn’t really talk much or do anything together, even when one or the other reached out. They tried sometimes, but they were always out of step, too anxious and unfamiliar now. The simple act of making rice and beans, something he had done by himself hundreds of times now, was intensely strange with his father there to stir the pot and ask for ingredients._

_After a quiet but shared meal, they turned back to the cookies. Isamu put the butter in the mixer and asked how much sugar they needed. When Ryo pulled out Esther’s handwritten recipe card to check, a crushing sadness crossed Isamu’s face, and the whole fragile scene finally cracked._

_Ryo broke first. The steely set to his jaw that he had earlier had come undone when his father unexpectedly took up his offer to join him, and he hadn’t quite reset himself. When faced with Isamu’s grief, Ryo’s own came out in the form of ugly sobs, torn from his chest uncontrollably. Isamu’s tears came next, much softer, but no less heartbroken as he pulled his son into a hug. They hadn’t touched for days, but Ryo gratefully buried his face into the crook of his father’s neck._

_Clutching him tightly, Isamu petted Ryo’s hair as he soaked his shirt in tears. His own voice was choked up as he said, “You know what your maman always said about grief?”_

_He did, but he was crying far too hard to respond._

_“It’s the tax we pay for loving someone.” Isamu’s words were wobbly and a rueful smile crossed his face. “But it’s worth it. The love is always worth it.”_

\---

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, desperately rubbing his face as Kohei wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“It’s okay to be sad sometimes,” Kohei asserted, squeezing him in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Ryo caught his breath, sniffling and bending down to return the hug and kiss his temple. 

As he stood back up, Akira enveloped him into another hug, Hoshiko still in one arm. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

Placing a kiss on Hoshiko’s forehead, Ryo smiled. “It’s okay. They’re good memories, and I’m glad they’re good for you, too. How about plating these cookies, huh?”

A few minutes later found most of the cookies on a plate hidden in the microwave to protect them from a curious Maru, while the rest were being munched by his family. His beautiful, wonderful family, celebrating a memory of his maman, still touching his life even after her death, still leaving sweetness in her wake. 

Biting into his own cookie, Ryo couldn’t help but think about how they were terribly named for a dessert. _Punitions_ , they were called, labeled as such in his maman’s loopy handwriting on the recipe. A French word for “punishment.” Sweet, delicate, and buttery, he couldn’t think for the life of him why they would be punishments. Maybe the ache in his chest was a punishment, the grief for someone wonderful but long gone. But the sweetness on his tongue was worth it.


End file.
